Saturday, November 2, 2013


 The poetry I write, this form evokes:
 it’s not that I have something set to say;
 the sonnet scheme itself colludes to coax,
 by dint of meter and of rhyme, the play
 of thought and imagery that slowly shapes
 my phrases and my clauses, line by line,
 which sometimes dance or sometimes trot or traipse,
 explicitly unfolding their design.

 How curious and magical this feels,
 as if I were the agent of this form
 that has possessed my brain till it reveals
 a pattern in my busy thoughts aswarm
 that finally take shape as if designed
 this way, from the beginning, by my mind.